Cartouche
by blackdragonsghost
Summary: AU. Herein lies talk of Gerald's messed up past, discussion of black-magic-type Workings before mankind really figured out how the fae worked, rituals, Sacrifices, and one very unfortunate Knight who ends up a pawn, permanently bound to his worst enemy. Could be worse, though. No, really, it could be. Slash, Gerald/Damien, pretty bloody dark. NOT a romance in any traditional sense.


_Author's Note: Went to see the Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug today, and it was bloody awesome. Then promptly spent the afternoon babbling about how awesome it was with my friends, so that's why there's one update with minimal spellchecking being posted tonight. (Make that this morning, God how is it so late already.) So yeah. Land of the Flame, New Era of Vengeance, sequel stuff and Mpreg fic coming tomorrow or the day after. _

_This fic is one hundred percent Alowl's fault. We were discussing our respective taste in music, and she asked me what kind of fic I thought the Blackmore's Night song 'Cartouche' might inspire. Apparently, my brain took that a little too seriously. I started out with the idea that black magic rituals might have been used in the beginning, by colonists desperate to find a way of controlling the fae - which, of course, led to the age-old cliché of Gerald using black magic to make Damien fall in love with him. It seemed a bit trite, though, and rather OOC since Gerald is (allegedly) not in love with Damien, or at least wouldn't express it in such a sappily romantic way... which led to a new twist. Suppose it was to Gerald's own benefit to use a black magic ritual, and Damien was just collateral damage of a sort? Read it and see, my friends, read it and see. _

_Warnings: Could technically read as dubcon, considering the events directly preceding the smut, but I'm not sure where to draw the line on that. So, there's hints of possible dubcon, some smutty goodness, and Gerald being a selfish, manipulative bastard. Standard fare, really - both for my work and for a good portion of this fandom. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Coldfire Trilogy or the characters or settings thereof. Hands off Nemanja, though, she's mine - not that anyone else would want her. *evil grin*_

_A.N.2: I do strongly advise my readers to listen to 'Cartouche' at some point during this fic - it's an absolutely hypnotizing song. Plus, it really sets the atmosphere. I think some influences of Once Upon A Time worked their way in here as well: specifically, the ritual scene. And in reflection I think Nemanja might be a female Expy of Rumplestiltskin. I don't even... Seriously, I just don't even __**know**__ anymore... Plus, not to spoiler anyone, but let's just say I might have played on some ideas that Supernatural came up with, about what happens when a person's soul is compromised. Anyway, just let me know if I've wildly overestimated myself, because honestly, I like this piece. I think I turned out a decent effort this time, which is more than can be said for some of my past, thankfully-not-posted songfics._

_A.N.3: I'd like to make one thing very clear, just to make sure no one gets their feelings hurt. I did not hear the phrase 'witchwood' and automatically assume black magic, alright? I myself am a proud Celtic Neopagan, and I've got absolutely nothing against Wicca or any other type of benevolent witchcraft. It's just... well, it's __**Gerald**__. He killed his wife and children in a blood sacrifice to gain immortality. The black magic writes itself. _

...

...

After they had buried poor Senzei, Damien gathered his companions around him for a conference of war.

"We need a new plan." he said bluntly, looking around at the remains of their little party. They made a sorry picture: Hesseth ginger-legged from the unaccustomed riding, Ciani pale and gaunt with nearly feverish eyes, and himself battered and bruised from head to toe. Only Gerald was unmarred, his pale skin and golden hair as impeccably beautiful as always - and even he looked strained tonight, the remnants of the Fire on the night wind stinging at his senses. "This isn't working - the Master of Lema is obviously on to us, and if we keep this up we're going to be worn down to exhaustion then picked off one by one."

"Agreed." Gerald said quietly, silvery eyes narrowing. "What do you suggest, Reverend?"

Damien sighed, shaking his head in helpless frustration. "I don't even know. It seems like this Master of Lema is always one step ahead of us, no matter which way we turn: we need something unpredictable. Something he won't see coming."

Ciani made a despairing sound. "How can we possibly do that, though, Damien? We're stranded here in the middle of the rakhlands with severely limited resources - what could we possibly do that the Master of Lema wouldn't foresee?"

"There might be something." Gerald's soft voice stopped them in their tracks: even Hesseth, silent in the debate, cast an interested glance at the adept. He was staring off into the darkness, gaze distant, tones abstracted as he spoke. "It would be dangerous, and probably costly... but it might give us an edge. Our enemy may have predicted many of our movements, but he doesn't know enough of our pasts to foresee this, as I suspect I'm the only being on the planet who would have a chance of succeeding in this particular endeavor." Snapping out of his reverie, he turned back to the group, eyes bright and calculating as he asked them, "How much do you know of a woman named Nemanja?"

Damien frowned. "I've heard the name, but I can't quite place it."

"She was a sorceress in the Revivalist era." Ciani volunteered, frowning slightly, her soft brown eyes troubled. "She dabbled in some very, very dark branches of fae-Working; blood sigils, Sacrifices, even the old black magick that the colonists brought from Earth. Enough so that she was called a witch, and driven out of almost every town she tried to settle in."

Gerald inclined his head slightly. "Precisely. After the incident in 290 AS when she was driven out of Jaggonath, she traveled north, and eventually found herself in Merentha. I was apprenticed to her, for a time."

The stunned silence was broken by a sudden, vicious hissing from Hesseth. "You _willingly trained_ under that serpentess?" the rakh spat, hackles rising as her cat-bright eyes flashed and narrowed dangerously, claws sliding from their sheathes in reflexive aggression. Damien stared at her.

"Hang on - how do you know the name of a human witch from the third century AS?"

"That, Vryce, is why this story is important." Gerald said coolly, directing an icy glance at Hesseth that did nothing to cool the rakh's anger. "After she and I suffered a... difference of opinion in some small matters, Nemanja chose to travel to the rakhlands and seek a way through the Canopy. She had heard that the rakh, then still more beast than person, had an instinctive connection to the tidal fae; she harbored some ambitions of harnessing that link and using it to manipulate the tidal fae and increase her own power. She never returned, but I learned of her fate many decades later from Karril - it seems she attempted a Sacrifice similar to my own when her time ran short, but the demon she chose to make her bargain with was far less scrupulous than the Unnamed. She was transformed into a wraithlike spectre, her mind intact but devoid of any body more corporeal than a shadow; due to the nature of its interaction with the fae, this rendered her unable to cross the Canopy. To the best of my knowledge, she is still trapped here, powers intact but useless so long as she cannot escape the rakhlands. Despite our differences, I believe I could persuade her to aid us."

For a long moment, the others were silent, consulting through their gazes alone. Hesseth was unhappy, but no longer protesting; the adept's keen logic and smooth, utterly assured manner had at least convinced her that it might be worth a try. Ciani was paler than ever, but her jaw had taken on the stubborn set that spoke very clearly of her decision to attempt this new, dangerous ploy. As for Damien, he wasn't sure what to think - it was clear, to him at least, that the adept was holding something back. He wasn't convinced that their 'difference of opinion' was so insignificant as the Hunter made it out to be, nor was he confident that Gerald was telling the whole truth about the witch's current state of being; however, what choice did they have? At the very least, he had the guarantee that Gerald wanted to come out of this mess alive just as much as they did, in fact probably more so. With his vow to protect Ciani still binding him, he wouldn't do anything to deliberately sabotage their mission. The Knight sighed, capitulated, and turned to the Hunter.

"How soon can you contact this Nemanja?"

Gerald smiled faintly, eyes glittering as he dipped his head. "I shall begin the Summoning immediately."

The adept turned and strode off into the darkness, intending to get clear of the faint traces of Fire that still contaminated the immediate area. Damien, watching him go, shivered slightly: for a moment, he could have sworn that he heard the eerie notes of a strange, enchanting melody floating on the cold wind.

_**If I share this with you, never speak a word - **_

_**They would never understand if they ever heard.**_

_**Gemini, Capricorn, rising in the east:**_

_**Dancing through the witchwood, we began to sing...**_

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

It was barely an hour later - an hour of tense silence and stilted conversation, sorrow for the past and dread for the future making the air thick and the atmosphere grim - when the Hunter called sharply for them from the clearing where he had performed the Summoning. Hearts beating fast, the mortal members of the company rose and followed his voice through the trees - and stepped into a clearing not far from their camp, where they found the Hunter standing under the moonlight, accompanied by another.

It was an old woman, garbed in what had surely once been a fine gown. Time had not been kind to her, however: if ever she was beautiful, those days had passed long ago. Her skin was like dried leather, wrinkled and taut as it stretched over cheekbone and jawbone alike that protruded from her hollowed face. Her hair was lank and tangled, hanging in dark mats over her shoulders and framing her face like the dank, moth-eaten curtains of some ancient ill-kept manor house. Her dress had clearly once been very fine; it carried the elaborate pleats and petticoats of the finest Revivalist gown, and it appeared to have once been a rich emerald green in color - now, though, it was faded and worn, torn and frayed in places and marred by mysterious dark stains Damien didn't dare to inspect too closely. Everything about the woman gave the impression of something that had been sapped of vitality: she stood slightly stooped, as though unable to hold herself fully upright, and her lips seemed perpetually drawn back just enough to show a flash of crooked yellowed teeth - her wizened hands, hovering together over her midriff as though she had never quite shaken the habit of folding them there, were bent and curled into vulture-like talons. The only thing about her that hinted at life were her sunken eyes; they were the most unusual amber color, like the eyes of some great cat, and they burned with such avid fervor that Damien felt a sharp chill run up his spine when her gaze settled upon them. She barely glanced at them, however, before her gaze returned to Gerald: she seemed to be trying to devour him with her eyes alone, her look so covetous that the Knight's skin crawled.

Gerald seemed utterly unaffected, making an elegant half-bow as they approached. "Lady Nemanja: Hesseth sa-Restrath, the Reverend Damien Vryce, and the Lady Ciani."

Nemanja's lips pulled back into a lopsided, unsettling smile as she curtseyed slightly, her movements stiff and creaking. "'Tis a pleasure." she croaked, her voice rasping and far deeper than Damien had expected. "Long has it been, since I've seen another living face - imagine my surprise to find four here, who would ask for my aid." She cast a sly, sideways glance at Gerald. "One of them my own cherished apprentice, no less."

Ciani made a soft, choked-off noise, but her manners seemed to win out over whatever unease had gripped her. "Likewise, milady." she said, dredging up a smile with some effort. "It would seem from your dress that it has been... a very, very long time indeed. It must have been lonely."

Nemanja stiffened, eyes narrowing suddenly. "You can see my true appearance?" She glanced sharply among them, eyebrows lifting at the looks on their faces. "You all can." Turning, she stared piercingly at Gerald. "How strongly have you warded them, my lovely Neocount?"

Damien nearly swallowed his tongue, but Gerald gave no sign that he had even heard the strange endearment. "Strongly enough." he said coolly, his expression giving nothing away. Nemanja's whole demeanor seemed to shift then; her unsettling smile starting to flicker back in as she moved closer, that covetous look appearing against as she purred,

"Mm... You never did fall for my glamours, like those other fools." The witch lifted her hand, the backs of her curled fingers drifting downward along the fine bone of Tarrant's jawline, ghostly shadow almost touching alabaster flesh. Her eyes burned, hollow amber fire as she smiled darkly. "Unlife looks good on you, _taibhseach_... though not quite so lovely as righteous fury once did." Her smile turned indulgent, and she brought her hand back up, one crooked finger extending to rest the tip of her claw-like nail under Tarrant's chin as her eyes glittered hungrily up at him. "As I recall, it was you who turned from my teachings, beautiful one. What brings you back to me now?"

Tarrant's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't otherwise react to the woman's almost-stroking, which shocked Damien still further. The Hunter didn't exactly seem the type to allow that much contact. Still, Tarrant's voice was perfectly level as he replied, "I require your assistance in a rather delicate matter."

"Ah." A knowing gleam flickered through the woman's eyes, and she dipped her head slightly. "Of course. And so, in your hour of need, you come back to poor old Nemanja..." Lips still twisted in that unsettling smile, the crone finally stepped back, wrapping her fingers in the ragged skirts of her once-fine gown as she curtseyed stiffly once more. "Shall we discuss the terms, my little Neocount?"

Tarrant's lip curled ever so slightly, but he gave no other sign of distaste as he bowed very, very shallowly. "As you wish." Glancing at Damien, the adept muttered, "I'll return shortly, Reverend. Kindly lead the others back to camp - and do try to keep them from asking too many troublesome questions." With that parting jab, the Hunter turned and followed the old woman's hobbling path away from the clearing and deeper still into the wood, through the tight screen of the skeletal, drooping trees until both figures were lost to the Knight's wondering gaze.

Once out of sight and earshot of the others, Gerald turned to Nemanja. The adept's posture was stiff with barely-restrained contempt: there had once been a time when he looked up to this ancient crone, but those days were long, long past. Their history was surprisingly simple, a story that had been repeated since the beginnings of human history - elder mentors youth, youth surpasses elder, war is waged until only the more powerful youth is left standing.

Gerald had been only a boy when he met Nemanja: the woman, called a witch by those of the Revivalist age, had been traveling through Merentha on her way to the northern mountains. She had come by the coast roads from the settlement of Jaggonath, a budding young trading city in the southeast; there, she had been run out of town by superstitious locals, accusations of black magic and demonic worship trailing her on her journey north. There was considerable truth to the accusations - in those days, Workings were newly discovered and still at their most primitive, and the pattern of Sacrifice established by Ian Casca meant that some highly unsavory methods could sometimes yield the surest results. Certainly, Nemanja had never flinched from using a little blood magic or other such Terran-inspired techniques to ensure the success of her endeavors. She rarely shared the secrets of her strongest Workings, though... until she met the young Gerald Tarrant.

In the reviled youngest son of a petty minor noble from Merentha, Nemanja had seen an opportunity, a kindred spirit in the making. Gerald had already been an extraordinary young man, too clever by half and almost unnaturally beautiful, his striking appearance and razor intelligence a combination that made nearly every person who met him wary and unsettled. Gerald's mask of cool composure was almost perfect, even then, but Nemanja had seen behind the shields - she had glimpsed the icy, seething morass of hatred and ambition that lay inside the adept's heart, and she had seized instantly on the idea of using it. She could train the boy, teach him the secrets of her darkest magicks and transform him into a weapon that could bring the world to its knees.

She might have succeeded, if she had not underestimated her chosen prey so very drastically.

Gerald had seen through her from the moment of their first meeting. He played along, though, content to let her think that he was her obedient puppet while he used her in turn, prying out every scrap of knowledge and skill she possessed and coupling it with his own experience, abilities, and knowledge until he had far surpassed her skill with the fae. Nemanja was cunning, and reasonably skilled, but she lacked the brilliant intuitiveness that allowed Gerald to adapt and overcome any obstacle he faced - and she was not an adept. Gerald had lived and breathed the fae since the day he was born, and that kinship with the power he wielded let him become more skilled than Nemanja had ever dreamed.

Once he was ready to move up in the world, intending to join the King's army and make his name in the war against the rebels in Mornoth, Gerald knew he had to get rid of Nemanja. Association with a known witch would do him no favors - in the days of the Revival, very little was understood about the nature of the fae, and its use was regarded much the same as the use of black magic had once been on Earth. Bad enough that he was an adept; if people learned of his apprenticeship under Nemanja, it would leave a stain on his reputation that would be difficult indeed to eradicate. So, he asked his mentor to meet him in the woods outside Merentha, and once there he dealt with the matter with all the strategic ruthlessness that would one day make him a living legend.

He gave Nemanja an ultimatum; leave Merentha for regions remote, and never return, or die. In truth, the young adept was bluffing; he was only nineteen then, not yet hardened by warfare and political scheming, and he still carried the bright sheen of idealism that would eventually lead him to revolutionize the very nature of religion on Erna. His bluff was a good one, though - Nemanja doubted that he could really follow through on his threat, but she hadn't gotten that far by taking unnecessary risks. With what dignity she could muster, she acceded, and left Merentha to resume her temporarily abandoned plans of seeking entrance to the rakhlands. She had heard tell that the animalistic rakh were thought to possess some kind of natural connection to the tidal fae, and wanted to see about tapping into this potential well of opportunity.

That was the last that anyone heard from her for a very, very long time.

It was indeed from Karril that Gerald eventually learned her fate. The Iezu had stated in conversation that he was amazed at Gerald's accomplishment in achieving sustainable immortality: he had then mentioned in passing the case of an unfortunate woman he knew, a self-proclaimed witch, who had tried to cut a deal with a high-ranking demon and ended up trapped in a ghastly half-life, insubstantial as a fae-wraith for most of the time and capable of taking on a solid form only when given a ritual sacrifice. Intrigued, Gerald had inquired as to the woman's identity - and been given the name Nemanja.

Trapped as a ghostly wraith imprinted on the fae-currents, Nemanja was unable to leave the rakhlands without taking a solid form, and no rakh would make the sacrifice necessary to give her a temporary physical body. Gerald had known that, and when his thoughts turned to seeking an unexpected advantage over the Master of Lema, he had thought almost immediately of his former mentor. Now, standing here under the cold Corelight facing the woman who had first introduced him to the darker side of fae Workings, Gerald met her gaze without a trace of fear or awe.

"I see no reason to delay this with pleasantries, Nemanja. We both know exactly what each of us are, and how far we are willing to go. The only question is what it's going to cost."

Nemanja smiled tightly, her strange amber eyes glittering brightly. "Indeed. Direct as ever, beautiful one. What exactly is it you want of me?"

Gerald had long ago stopped protesting her slightly disturbing pet names for him; he had decided, in his early teens, that it was better to use his good looks to his own advantage than it was to curse them. Of course, it was also that philosophy that had led to his disastrous affair with Gannon... pushing that thought aside, Gerald focused all his attention on the conversation, lifting a sharp eyebrow at Nemanja's question.

"I need to defeat a powerful sorcerer, one calling himself the Master of Lema. He created an army of demonic beings, memory-eaters: by virtue of a rather inconvenient vow, I find myself obliged to see to his destruction. We have, however, encountered... difficulties. One of our party is already dead."

Nemanja smirked. "Ah, yes. So, you wish my aid, in whatever capacity you require until your task is complete - fair enough. And what will you give me in return, _taibhseach_? You know full well I do nothing without compensation... and given our last meeting, I hardly think you expect me to assist you for old time's sake."

"Of course not." Gerald said coolly, grey eyes glittering as a hint of a smile touched his lips for the first time during their conversation. "I can offer you exactly what you want, Nemanja - freedom."

The ancient sorceress froze, eyes suddenly burning fiercely. "Freedom?" she whispered hoarsely, hands curling into tight claws in the folds of her skirts as she stepped closer, her whole body tense and drawn. "What freedom can you offer me, my lovely Neocount? Do you suppose my existence so lonely that I would rather die than continue like this?"

"Not hardly." Gerald said levelly. "I think you underestimate me again, Nemanja; I've changed a great deal since we last met. I may have bluffed the night I threatened to kill you, but I'm sure you've heard the tale of what I did to Almea. I'm not bluffing now when I tell you that I have no qualms over sacrificing one of my companions to give you a solid form long enough to pass through the Canopy."

Nemanja's eyes flamed with hungry fire as she lunged forward, her mask of smug indifference shattered as she clutched frenetically at Gerald's arm. "You would do that?" she gasped, feverish, a leathery tongue darting from her mouth to swipe at her dry, cracked lips. "Which one? The woman?"

"No. It was she whom I vowed to protect, in a moment of ill-considered generosity." Gerald said, eyes narrowing as he stepped back, shaking off her grasping hands. He paused a moment, head tilting in thought, then smiled. The expression was cold and sharp as a winter's gale. "The priest, I think. Who can say if the ritual would work with a rakh? No, I think the Reverend Vryce will do just fine for this particular Sacrifice."

When Nemanja let out a little sigh of anticipatory glee, Gerald knew he had her. Satisfaction pulsed in the adept's core: even for him, this was a masterstroke. Even as he spoke with the old witch, a plan had taken shape abruptly in his mind, sharp as a razor and crystal clear: a way to complete the sacrifice and uphold his deal with Nemanja, yet gain something himself out of the ritual. After all, the rules governing Nemanja's immortality were considerably laxer than those of his own, given her half-state. She required a ritual in which the subject was stripped of their soul; no condition was ever set that the soul had to be given into her care. Gerald was fascinated by Damien, far more than he wished to admit - and as the end of their quest drew nearer, the adept's mind had been weighted by the thought that soon, one way or another, he and the Knight would part ways. He wasn't ready to let go, not yet; there was still too much of the Knight's mind and heart that he had not yet cracked open to explore and understand. Gerald's thoughts turned back to his musings of a few days before, when he had been considering the possibility of seeking a way to keep Vryce bound to him even after their quest ended, and he almost laughed aloud. How neatly Fate had played into his hands!

Restraining a smile of victory with effort, Gerald nodded to Nemanja. "Do we have a deal?"

"Indeed we do, my beautiful one." Nemanja breathed, twisting her hands together in a paroxysm of greedy delight. "A living sacrifice, and a Knight of the Flame no less - ah! How sweet his soul will taste!" She dipped into yet another creaking curtsey, an insipid smile curving her lips. "I must return to my favored haunt to gather my strength, my dear, but rest assured I shall return as soon as I may." With that, she flickered and vanished, fading away like smoke in the wind and leaving Gerald alone.

The adept allowed his smile to show, then, as the dark fae slipped from the shadows to pool about his feet. Gazing out into the darkness with visions of the future hovering before his eyes, he even allowed himself to hum a few bars of that ancient song - one that he had learned from Nemanja herself.

_**In between dark and light in the underworld,**_

_**Wrapped around your finger like a string of pearls.**_

_**Smiling face, empty hand, 7 golden rings - **_

_**Dancing through the starlight we began to sing...**_

_**Ahh, still I hear the whisper..."Cartouche"...**_

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

In the end, it proved disgustingly easy.

Nemanja led them northeast to Lema, guiding them around a series of traps laid for them by their enemy: between Gerald's Workings and Nemanja's ability to flit ahead at any time, their guard was tighter than ever before. When they eventually reached the citadel they sought, Gerald had seized on a plan almost immediately: the precariously top-heavy structure of the massive crystal keep, combined with the incredible array of interlinked quake wards, almost screamed of how to destroy the fortress. To ensure a fatality, Nemanja slipped inside the building and confronted the Master of Lema; while the - surprisingly, female - sorcerer was trying frantically to determine what exactly this strange woman _was_, Gerald severed the quake wards and unleashed an apocalyptic series of tremors that completely leveled the so-called House of Storms. Nemanja escaped unharmed, the company emerged no more the worse for wear, and Ciani's memory rushed back only moments later as her attacker perished in the fall of the citadel.

There was only one snag: Nemanja said that the Master of Lema's demonic patron had been present, but that he had escaped sometime in the moments just before the collapse. Gerald dismissed this, though; he told Damien that demons rarely possessed the kind of imagination necessary for creating monstrosities like the memory eaters, and that they likely did not need to worry about retribution from the demon. It would simply go find a new mortal pawn. Even if it was angry, the adept had added dryly, once he had returned to the Forest he would welcome a chance to deal with a would-be demonic challenger. It had been some time since his wolves were given a proper meal.

After the Master of Lema's death, the company decided to return to Hesseth's tribe, where they would be welcomed as heroes. While the others were gathering their meagre rations and planning their route back, however, Gerald was plotting.

He knew he had to strike soon, before they returned the rakh tribe, or risk someone interfering with the ritual. By the same token, however, he did not relish the idea of sacrificing the Knight _now_ and having to make it across the rakhlands and through the Canopy with Ciani, Hesseth, and likely several tribes of rakh on his heels and looking for blood. Nemanja had left the company, pretending that any debt was already settled and that she was returning to whatever pursuits she occupied her time with here in the rakhlands, but Gerald knew she was waiting impatiently for him to complete the ritual that would give her a body again. Finally, he settled on a course of action.

He would wait until they had crossed back through the mountains and reached the edge of the plains, thus completing the most difficult part of the return journey. At that point, the risk of encountering a tribe of plains rakh would increase exponentially: Gerald would make his move then, before they had run across any more rakh, and finish his deal with Nemanja. Then, he would turn west. He would skirt the upper edges of the plains and head for the Canopy's west border: now that he knew more of how the fae-curtain worked, he was confident that he could manage to cross it on land with some careful maneuvering. Ciani and Hesseth would expect him to have gone south, and continue on their original course - by the time they realized he wasn't ahead of them, he would be safely through the Canopy and heading south by way of the Black Ridge mountains into the Forest.

Or, more precisely, he and his companion would be heading south.

As it happened, Fate seemed perfectly content to deposit her favorite Knight directly into Gerald's deft hands. On the very day that they descended from the mountains far enough to glimpse the rolling grassland plains before them, Damien's unhorse rolled its ankle over a loose stone. With the last aftershocks of the quake that had leveled the House of Storms still occasionally shaking the ground, it was nowhere near safe to Work the fae and Heal the animal. Hesseth, who had been leading them toward a nearby spring she knew of, was clearly torn: on the one hand, they wanted to make quick progress back to her tribe, and the spring was an ideal resting place for the day. On the other, Damien's horse wasn't fit to carry him at the moment, and with all their spare mounts slain and their remaining horses exhausted as it was, they didn't dare double on any of them. Damien suggested that the others ride on ahead to the spring and leave him to catch up later in the night: however, the memory of Senzei's death was still a little too painful for Ciani to accept that idea. Gerald solved the dilemma smoothly: he volunteered to remain behind to accompany Damien while the women traveled ahead. Ciani was startled, and clearly a little confused, but both she and Damien seemed to assume that he was volunteering simply to get away from Hesseth - a reasonable assumption, given how increasingly hostile the rakh had become toward him since the Master of Lema's death. She seemed to feel that now he was no longer of use, they should be taking steps to end his existence. Gerald was only too happy to let them keep their delusions, hardly able to believe his good fortune but nowhere near above taking advantage of this opportunity.

Once Ciani and Hesseth had ridden out of sight and earshot, Damien turned to the Hunter with amusement dancing in his hazel eyes. "Let me guess. You were on the verge of killing Hesseth, and this is your idea of self-regulation, staying behind to chew a verbal strip off me instead."

Gerald raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. He had dismounted, and was leading his horse by the reins as he kept pace with the Knight and his injured steed: Forest-bred and enduring though it was, his own night-black mount seemed to appreciate the leisurely pace. "Do you flatter yourself so entertaining as that, Reverend?"

Damien snorted. "I'm the only one you bother to start this conversational sparring with, so I'll assume that I am." He glanced up at the night sky, smiling a little at the distant twinkle of the Core. "It's a relief to be headed home again. For a while, I was sure we weren't going to make it."

Gerald studied the Knight, noticing the tension that was even now relaxing out of his body, and made an educated guess. "And how are... relations with the Lady Ciani?"

Damien's smile faded, replaced by a slight grimace. "It's hard to say. I'm glad she has her memories back, of course, and she's been very grateful, but... she seems to be more intrigued by the rakh than anything. I haven't been able to pry her away from Hesseth's side for more than five minutes since we killed that bastard that attacked her." He was silent for a minute, then quietly admitted something that he hadn't given voice to since Ciani recovered. "I don't think she's coming back to Jaggonath."

Gerald was actually a bit surprised by that: his mind constantly on the Sacrifice he was about to undertake, his attention had been revolving around Damien these past weeks - granted, most of his attention had been on the Knight since they set out on this journey, but the weight of his own schemes had not done anything to mitigate that. He hadn't been watching the Lady Ciani at all, and he certainly hadn't realized she was that attached to her work with the rakh. "Really? Has she not consulted you about her intentions? I was under the impression that you were..."

He trailed off, inwardly smirking. He had every intention of driving a wedge between Damien Vryce and his companions, and it seemed that luck was indeed on his side this particular night. Damien grimaced, eyes darkening. "We were. I'm not sure about that anymore. She's been very carefully avoiding the subject, and on top of that, I know for a fact she's willing to bat for either team and she's been getting awfully cozy with Hesseth, if you know what I mean."

Gerald made a noise of comprehension that, from another man, might have been taken for being sympathetic. "Ah. You believe she's decided the lady rakh would be a better partner."

Damien sighed. "Seems like it. I knew it was never going to last, really, I just... I don't even know what I thought."

Gerald had done some cursory reconnaissance the night before, and he had selected a perfect location for the ritual he would need to perform to restore Nemanja to a physical form, almost directly in their projected path. By his careful calculations, they should only be a short distance away from it now. Reaching out delicately to the fae, he confirmed this, then paused in his tracks and feigned a look of wariness.

"Vryce."

Damien stopped immediately, melancholy look melting away into an expression of determined readiness. "What is it?" he asked, already reaching for his sword. Gerald lifted a hand to forestall him, eyes narrowing as he looked toward the west.

"I'm not sure. There's a strange trace on the currents: it's coming from that direction." He studied the perfectly smooth flow of the fae about their feet, as though seeing some strange anomaly. "It seems familiar, but I can't quite discern the pattern."

Damien sighed. "Damn. Better check it out - God knows what's lurking in these woods." Leading his horse to the nearest tree, Damien tied the reins swiftly around a branch and left the beast there as he drew his sword: Gerald simply let go of his own steed's reins, knowing that the well-trained horse would stay in place as he moved forward with the Knight at his side.

He picked his way through the trees silently, Damien's heavier tread just behind him.

After only a few moments, they reached the spot that Gerald had chosen, guided unerringly by the fae. It was a medium-sized clearing, ringed around by the graceful trunks of cypress trees. In the center was the reason Gerald has chosen it: sometime in ages past, some quirk of geology had deposited a large, squarish stone in the middle of the clearing like some ancient, neglected pagan altar. The place had a feeling of grim solemnity, a heaviness in the air as though the world were holding its breath.

_**Caramel colored leaves spiral in the air,**_

_**Diving right into the ground, 'round the winding stair.**_

_**Stories carved out of wood, jester and the king:**_

_**Dancing through the moonlight, we began to sing...**_

_**Ahh, still I hear the whisper..."Cartouche"...**_

Damien stared, moving forward slowly, stepping past Gerald and into the clearing itself. "What the vulking hell..."

"Indeed." Gerald breathed, as he moved.

A surge of the fae, an effort of will, and a quick press of his fingers to Damien's temple: the Knight went down like a marionette with severed strings, dropping silently to the forest floor. Eyeing the distance from where the Knight had fallen to the makeshift altar, Gerald sighed. Truly, whoever had coined the phrase 'no rest for the wicked' couldn't have known the accuracy of their statement.

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

Damien came back to himself slowly, his slow scrabble toward consciousness seriously impeded by the splitting ache that throbbed through his head. He groaned involuntarily, eyes still shut, dizzy and disoriented even though he thought he might be lying down; a moment later, Gerald's cool voice pierced the haze hanging over his mind.

"If I hadn't thought you would put up far too much of a fuss, Reverend, I would have spared you the headache of forcible unconsciousness; unfortunately, I am well acquainted with exactly how difficult you can become when you set your mind to it."

Utterly confused, Damien opened his eyes.

He was indeed lying down - on a very uncomfortable slab of rock, as it happened. Gerald was standing over him, arms folded lazily over his chest, looking down at the Knight with a mixture of pity, amusement, and something that looked frighteningly like anticipation. Slow dread creeping through his veins and leaving a bitter taste in his throat, Damien tried to pull away - and discovered another fact. He was not only lying on a slab of stone, he was _tied_ to said slab of stone - Gerald seemed to have procured rope from somewhere, likely one of the saddlebags, and tied him in place.

Groaning again, Damien looked up at the adept, feeling a shiver run through his traitorous body at the near-hungry look in Gerald's eyes. "Alright, Tarrant - clearly, you're up to something. Would you care to explain _why_ I'm trussed up like a holiday fowl?" Despite his flippant tone, Damien's heart was racing - nothing involving Gerald Tarrant and bindings ever ended well.

Gerald's slow, sharp smile was blood-curdling. "I may have been... slightly disingenuous regarding my deal with Nemanja, Vryce. You see, my former mentor is a rather ambitious person, and she insisted on a price for her aid against the Master of Lema. The conditions of Nemanja's bargain with her patron mean that to regain a tangible form, capable of passing through the Canopy, someone must make a Sacrifice for her - a Sacrifice of a living human soul. Her escape from the rakhlands was the condition for her assistance, and as much as I despise making bargains with a creature such as her, I had little choice in the matter. If it eases your mind at all, it's hardly personal; the Lady Ciani is off limits, for obvious reasons, and I'm not at all certain that the ritual would work with a rakhene soul."

For a long moment, Damien was rendered speechless. Gerald seemed to take that as his cue to lean forward and check the ropes holding the priest in place. "I would apologize, Vryce, if I could muster any true repentance." the adept continued more softly, his voice hardly louder than the night wind as his slender fingers flitted about the Knight's wrists, checking the tension of the rough ropes that kept him down. "However... with this bargain I gain far more than petty revenge, and I lose absolutely nothing. I won't patronize you with false platitudes of regret."

"How considerate." Damien finally bit out, heart pounding in his chest as a cold sweat broke out across his skin. "I'm a victim of circumstance _and_ you won't pretend to be sorry to make me feel better. That's really reassuring, you son of a bitch."

Gerald gave him a thin, tight smile. "I do aim to please, Reverend."

Gerald moved up past his head and out of his sightline for a moment, and Damien could only lay there, feeling cold and sick with panic. Anger bubbled in the seething morass of his emotions as well, hot and bitter - to think that, only an hour or so ago, he had been opening up to the Hunter about his problems, letting himself enjoy the glitter of amusement in those silver eyes, daring to hope that the adept had actually changed... Of _course_ it would come back to bite him in the ass. He just hadn't expected the consequences of trusting Gerald to be _quite_ this severe.

At that moment, Nemanja's rough, grating voice came from somewhere to Damien's left. "As entertaining as your banter is, my beautiful one, I think I've been patient long enough, don't you? I am so looking forward to seeing the world beyond that wretched Canopy once more..."

"Patience, Nemanja." Gerald said tightly, his voice as cold as Damien had ever heard it. "You'll have your body soon enough."

He moved back into the Knight's line of sight - and he was holding a knife this time, the blade glistening silver-white in the moonlight. Damien swallowed hard, heart rate spiking as he squirmed a little against his bonds; the ropes held fast, though. Gerald noticed the movement, and his eyes glittered slightly.

"Just relax, Vryce - it'll be over sooner, and probably hurt less."

Damien resisted the urge to snap back a sarcastic comment this time, because time was running out and he was suddenly being forcibly confronted with the fact that he really, really didn't want to die. "Tarrant-" he started, his voice reduced to a pathetically shaky croak, but it was too late. The adept had already started to chant, in some strange language that Damien didn't recognize; it sounded like it meant even have been one of the old Earth tongues.

"_Biotáille an dorchadais_

_Éist le mo focail,_

_Glac tairiscint seo_

_Déanta i Íobairt._"

The change was instantaneous. The soft wind died away, the air going silent and breathless; Damien froze in place, holding almost painfully still as his heart raced in his chest. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising quickly, a charged feeling building around him as the fae began to stir at Gerald's call. The adept's pale eyes were fixed on the knife he held lying across his palms, seemingly oblivious to the Knight's terror as his chant grew stronger.

"_Sna scáthanna_

_Iarr mé ach seo de tú;_

_Go gcomhlíonann tú an comhaontú na fola,_

_Aisíoc comhchineáil mo bhronntanas_

_Agus onóir na bannaí de focal agus ghníomhas._"

"Yes!" Nemanja hissed, her eerie voice coming from somewhere near Damien's head and making him tense even further. "That's it. As lovely a pronunciation as ever, my beautiful one; ah, you were always my best student..."

Gerald ignored her utterly, gaze fixed and oblivious, face calm and unreadable. As he continued to murmur the ancient words, he shifted the knife to grip the hilt with just one hand; a swift, precise movement, and a line of red was beading across his pale palm.

"_Mé a thabhairt suas ar an cinniúint an fear_

_Agus an deireadh a shaoil-_"

Damien had gotten so caught up in watching Gerald that he didn't even see the knife move; he felt it, though, the sudden bite of icy pain where the cold steel sliced through his tunic and across his chest. He jerked, yelping in pain - but the ropes held him motionless, and the adept didn't even give any indication that he had heard the Knight's cry.

"_I n-íocfar a cheannach_

_Agus a shéalú mhargadh._"

In the blink of an eye, Gerald had pressed his bleeding hand against Damien's wounded chest. Instantly, it was as though Damien had been struck by lightning; his vision went white from the sheer, unrelenting agony that burned through his veins, and he could hear himself screaming, distant and wild and ragged but utterly beyond his control. A cold more intense than anything he had ever dreamed of seared through him, stealing away breath and thought; he writhed, something tearing open deep inside him, able to feel the moment that the Hunter's razor will sliced deep into his soul and starting to sever it altogether -

Echoing, distant but within his very mind, Damien heard the adept's voice rise in new urgency.

"_Tabhair ris dom an fear anam,_

_A shealbhú go deo Mine níos mó._"

"What?" Nemanja's voice was far away, distorted as if by water, shrill with something close to panic and taught with sudden pain. "What are you doing? You - _Tarrant_-"

"_Lig an medicine siúl saor in aisce leis an gcomhlacht dá bhrí sin cheannaigh -_

_Ach lig di a shealbhú aon éileamh ar an fear seo,_

_Agus lig dó a bheith faoi cheangal dom féin!_"

The draw on Damien's soul snapped. He felt himself slam back into his body, hard enough that he bucked up in reaction, gasping and wheezing; there were tears streaming down his cheeks, his whole body shaking and seizing from the pain that had just been burning through him, his teeth chattering violently from the cold that lingered in his veins. Above him, Nemanja was shouting, her voice shrill and furious.

"What exactly do you think you're playing at? Do you believe that you can still talk your way out of anything with a smile and a glance, my lovely Neocount? Do you really think that I won't find a way to make you pay for this?"

"It doesn't matter if you try." Gerald returned coldly; his hand was still resting on Damien's chest, and the Knight could feel his shudders easing by the moment under the contact, his remaining pain and fear draining away into a curious kind of apathy that was most definitely welcome after that torture. "This ritual cannot be undone, Nemanja, and it would not be wise to try."

"You betrayed me!" Nemanja shrieked, voice growing ever more shrill and harsh. "You promised, Hunter - you gave me your word of honor, and you broke your vow to me!"

"The ritual's power is yours, Nemanja, but Vryce's soul is mine!" Gerald said, his eyes blazing as he stepped forward, the pale hand splayed over the Knight's heaving chest pressing slightly harder as he glared at the enraged witch. "You have your mortal body - take it, and go. I promised you nothing more." With some effort, Damien twisted his head enough to look up - and flinched as he caught a glimpse at the look in Nemanja's eyes.

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

For all that they had once been close allies, Gerald felt absolutely no regrets or compunctions, seeing the betrayed fury in Nemanja's eyes. The witch was seething, anger radiating from every line in her body and jaw clenched tight with the last dregs of her self-restraint."

"Of course you promised nothing more, you cunning serpent!" Nemanja snarled, hatred burning in her amber eyes as she spat viciously on the ground between them. She jerked her head up, tossing the tangled locks of her ragged hair over her shoulder as she sneered at the adept. "You promise very little, don't you,_ taibhseach_? You like to use that silver tongue of yours, weave those pretty promises of wealth and power... but it never materializes, any more than does the Devil's promise of immortal glory! You can spout of your noble heritage all you please, _your Excellency_, but I would swear before the Lord's throne that you're the son of Lucifer himself!"

She snatched her ragged cloak from where it had lain on the fallen leaves, sweeping it around her shoulders with the imperial dignity of a scorned Queen. Gerald only gazed at her, eyes cold and expression haughty as he said softly, "From you, I'll take that as a compliment, Lady Nemanja. Do give my regards to the Unnamed, when they finally sink their claws into what's left of your blackened soul."

With a shriek of pure, wordless fury, Nemanja whirled away and vanished into the darkness.

Only then did Gerald allow himself to relax a little, hand loosening in the shadow of his cloak, where it had been wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He turned toward the altar: Damien hadn't struggled against his bonds since the ritual started, but was lying on the cold stone, watching the Hunter through resigned hazel eyes. Surprisingly steady for someone who had just felt their soul literally ripped from their body, the Knight asked quietly, "What happens now?"

Gerald allowed a slight smile to touch his lips as he lifted his hand, trailing ice-cold fingertips down the priest's cheek: Damien flinched, but his eyes widened, and Gerald saw the shock that traveled through the other man at his own reaction to the Hunter's touch. Triumph singing in his heart, Gerald murmured, "Now, Vryce, you are mine. I'm afraid you won't be returning to Jaggonath; the bond won't allow you to travel that far from me. I left the restrictions loose enough that you're still mostly your own person... I just happen to own your soul."

Damien's eyes flashed, but he had the sense to bite his tongue, saying tightly, "I see. And why, exactly, did you bother to do that? I would have thought you would have no qualms in turning me over to your friend there."

"Nemanja's not a friend. In any case, don't fool yourself into thinking this was about morals, Reverend." Gerald corrected, studying the Knight's face in fascination. Damien was taking this all so well, it truly was remarkable: so well, in fact, that something in the Hunter had to wonder if Damien was truly so opposed to being stuck with him after all. "I have ruled the Forest alone for a long, long time. Unquestioning obedience from one's servants is a good thing, of course... but it does become lonely, after a time, having no truly intelligent conversation around. Something about you intrigues me, Vryce - and while I don't understand just what it is, as of yet, that's no reason not to make sure you don't get away before I figure it out."

Damien's jaw clenched, but still he refused to bite. "So I'm just your newest pet, leash and all."

"On the contrary, Vryce. Consider yourself... a captive of necessity, if you prefer." Gerald said, still smiling faintly, unruffled by the Knight's animosity. As he spoke, he was reaching down to unfasten the priest's bonds, the intricate knots of rough rope giving way easily under his clever fingers. "I don't _want_ you to be as meek and obsequious as all my other minions - I'm looking for something a little more engaging than that. Continue to behave as your nature demands, Reverend; I'm sure we'll have many lively debates over precisely how much of an inhuman monster I am."

Damien's eyes flashed, and he hissed, "You arrogant bastard." Then he lunged.

Gerald had been half-expecting an attack, and shifted his weight instantly to avoid a blow - but instead of colliding with his ribcage, the Knight's hand landed on his shoulder and clenched there, almost painfully tight, a split second before Damien's mouth crashed against the Hunter's and swallowed the adept's strangled noise of shock.

Of all the reactions to his taunting that Gerald had anticipated, this was not one of them. Off-balance, he staggered slightly: Damien pressed the advantage, swinging up off the altar in a flash and spinning them around to slam Gerald back against the solid block of stone. The adept's back hit the rough surface hard, and he gasped: the sound was lost in Damien's mouth, as the Knight took the opportunity presented by Gerald's parted lips and surged forward to lay his claim.

Having expected an attack on his life rather than his dubious virtue, Gerald found himself moaning against Damien's lips as the priest plundered his mouth. This was unexpected - but most certainly not unwelcome. After only a moment, he retaliated; it was easy enough, with the Knight still weakened, to push forward and take control of the kiss. When he had Damien sufficiently distracted, he surged forward abruptly, spinning them around and pinning Damien against the stone instead.

Damien wrenched back to draw breath, mouth swollen and hazel eyes dilated as he rasped, "Toppy bastard, aren't you?"

"But of course." Gerald purred, smirking as he eyed the priest hungrily. "And whatever could have made you think-" He sank his teeth into the meat of the Knight's neck, reveling in his pained grunt, "That I would submit to the likes of you, Vryce?"

"I didn't expect you to just roll over for it, Tarrant." Damien shot back, a wicked glint in his warm hazel eyes as he wrapped one broad hand around the sculpted jut of the adept's hipbone and bucked forward, slamming their hips together and pulling a ragged, startled moan out of Gerald's throat. "You're the one who asked for an equal fight, though. I'm only following orders, _your Excellency_."

Gerald snarled hungrily against Damien's mouth, then hooked one long leg around the Knight's calf and yanked backward, hard. Startled, Damien lost his balance and they both fell, the Knight cursing as they tumbled onto the carpet of yellow-gold leaves. Panting lightly out of reflex, Gerald rolled on top of the priest, hands splayed across the other man's muscular chest for balance as he purred, "Then you're going to have to put up more of a fight than that, Vryce, I'd hardly call this equal."

Damien let out a short, sharp burst of laughter, then surged up underneath him: he managed to off-balance Gerald and rolled them both, pushing the adept down into the leaves. After a moment's tussle he succeeded in getting his hand around both of Gerald's wrists and yanked the adept's arms up over his head, pinning them to the ground and bracing himself with his free hand on the moist earth as he gasped out, "You realize I should be trying to kill you for what you did to me."

Gerald smirked up at the Knight, stretching languorously in Damien's grasp and rolling his body lithely up against Damien's just to hear him curse at the tantalizing friction. "Of course. And yet, here we are. If I didn't know better, Vryce, I'd think someone had been corrupting your oh-so-pure morals."

Damien huffed out a breathless chuckle, stilling for a moment, content to drink in the sight of Gerald pinned underneath him: the adept was gorgeous in that moment, golden hair splayed over the leaves like a shining halo, grey eyes alight with inner fire, lips reddened by the kiss so that he looked almost alive. "Yeah, go ahead and gloat, you smug bastard. Like it wasn't obvious from the minute we left the Forest. Next you'll be telling me the shocking revelation that Ciani would be horrified if she found out about this."

Gerald actually chuckled slightly as he arched, bringing his legs up to wrap around the Knight's hips: judging by the darkening of Damien's eyes and the hitch in his breathing, the move was appreciated. With a rather softer smirk than was typical for him, the adept writhed a little, taking full advantage of the way Damien's weight pushed their bodies together as he breathed, "You'd better not be getting cold feet, Vryce. I may not have killed you yet for impertinence, but I _will_ kill you if you back out now."

Damien snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Should have figured you'd be a demanding son of a bitch in bed too." Shifting his weight to the hand that was pinning Gerald's wrists and getting no complaint, he lifted the other hand to the fastenings of Gerald's tunic.

The adept smirked, quite content to lie there and let the Knight fumbled with the delicate ties of his clothing. "Trouble, Reverend?" he murmured, mocking tone thick and delighted as he lazily rolled his hips up again.

"Oh my God, _do you ever shut up?_" Damien lost his patience entirely, curled his fingers under the collar of the offending fabric, and yanked: the cloth gave way reluctantly to reveal what seemed like miles of perfectly unblemished alabaster skin, and Damien forestalled the scathing lecture heralded by Gerald's flashing eyes by surging forward and sealing his mouth over the sensitive skin at the adept's throat.

Gerald's head snapped back against the ground, an involuntary gasp leaving his lips at the spike of pleasure when Damien bit down on his neck. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Gerald's pre-existing fondness for a certain degree of brutality in lovemaking hadn't been reduced in the slightest by his transformation into the Hunter. Stifling a moan, he squirmed under the Knight, hissing in pleasure at the feeling of Damien's hot mouth working over his icy skin.

Damien, meanwhile, was silently gloating over the fact that he'd finally silenced the unbearably cocky adept. After weeks of stolen glances and guilty daydreams, it felt immensely satisfying to finally get his teeth on that pale, elegantly arched neck - and unlike with his myriad female partners of the past, for once, Damien didn't have to worry about being too rough. If there was one thing that was certain in this dangerous new territory, it was that he never needed to hold back out of worry for the Hunter.

A snarl building in the back of his throat like a wild animal closing in on its kill, Gerald brought his hand up and fisted it in Damien's hair, dragging the man's head back and meeting his lust-darkened gaze as he rasped out, "Stop vulking teasing, Vryce, and _fuck me already_."

Barking out another short laugh, Damien's hazel eyes flashed wickedly as the Knight obeyed.

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

Later, as they lay tangled together and recovering from their exertions, Gerald murmured, "I'm impressed, Vryce. I was expecting a great deal more pointless protesting and fury before we reached this point."

Damien chuckled, voice slightly rough as he shook his head. "I've been wavering between the urges to either kill you or fuck you for weeks, Tarrant. I couldn't let myself consider it too seriously, though - I'm a Knight of the Flame, it was my duty to see to it that someone put a stop to your evil."

Understanding flashed through the Hunter's mind, and a slow, surprised smile touched his lips. "Well, well... So you took advantage of the ritual's absolution of your moral duties. Very nicely done, Vryce - that's almost worthy of my usual level of manipulation."

Damien rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, grinning down at the adept. "You're a lot more agreeable after a good tumble, aren't you?"

Gerald snorted. "Oh, do shut up, Reverend."

There was a moment's peace, then Gerald sighed, stretching with the languidness of a satiated cat before he murmured, "We should get going. I want to cross the Canopy before the Lady Ciani works out what's happened."

Damien watched the adept rise and begin to dress, clearly mulling over his words. When the Knight rose also, Gerald was half expecting some king of protest. Instead, what he got was, "Well, at least now I have a valid excuse for not filling out the Patriarch's damn field reports."

His slightly startled laughter ringing through the clearing, Gerald had to wonder just how many more surprises this remarkable man had in store for him.

_**Memories, black and white, hide behind the glass - **_

_**In the mirrors and the smoke, it's all fading fast.**_

_**Written word, turn the card, winter into spring - **_

_**Dancing through the witchwood we began to sing!**_

_**Ahh, Ahh, still I hear the whisper - "Cartouche!"**_

...

...

_So, there we have it. If anyone's interested in a sequel and/or prequel, let me know: I've got some ideas floating around... I might be able to whip something up, if you guys want to read it. Especially since I've gone with a major style shift in this fic - namely, that Damien and Gerald aren't actually in love yet. I realized after some thought that given their dynamic, they probably would have been sleeping together looong before they admitted to having anything approaching __**'feelings'**__. *shudder* So, if you would like a continuation, just let me know and I'll see what I can do!_

_The full translation of Gerald's ritual is as follows (goes without saying that the one in the fic was in Irish) - _

Spirits of darkness

Hear my words,

Accept this offering

Made in Sacrifice.

In the shadows

I ask only this of you;

That you fulfill this pact of blood,

Repay in kind my gift

And honor the bonds of word and deed.

I deliver up the fate of this man

And the ending of his life

In the payment of a purchase

And the sealing of a bargain.

Give unto me this man's soul,

Mine to possess forever more.

Let this witch walk free with the body thus bought

But let her hold no claim upon this man

And let him be bound to me alone!


End file.
